


Brass Posing as Gold

by ronans



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 3x09, Angst, Canon Rewrite, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 08:48:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3350630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronans/pseuds/ronans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian wants the hair on his arms to stand on end as Mickey yells <em>I love you</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brass Posing as Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Drown - Marika Hackman  
> Sorry this is really short!

Mickey’s always thought of himself as something pretty damaged, twisted and dull. Ian thinks he’s the opposite.

Mickey’s brash, he shields himself a lot, bigs himself up to be something he’s not. And this has never really been clear to anybody but Ian. He knows Mickey hides himself, but this new announcement has completely thrown him.

The summer days start clouding over gradually and now Ian can’t see the sun anymore and he knows exactly where to find Mickey. He can predict the exact brand of liquor he’ll be drinking.

Calmly, he walks over to where Mickey’s sat, blind drunk, slumped against a crumbling pillar and lights up a cigarette. Mickey silently follows suit.

Cold between them, quiet between them, distance between them, but at least it’s them, Ian thinks. The floor’s damp from where rain had dripped through the holes in the roof.

His nostrils burn from the toxicity and his thoughts storm and mash together, a collision of sadness and words left unsaid. But he wants to say them.

Mickey told Ian once that when he was eight, he’d breathe out smoke through the gaps in his teeth. Terry had taught him to. He’d beaten him into his perfect idea of a Milkovich, fashioned Mickey’s malleable mind into a replica of himself. Maybe that’s why it’s been so hard for Ian to finally break through to who Mickey really is. He’s always been able to read him, though.

Now Ian can track the descent of the smoke into Mickey’s lungs and then how it manifests as courage when he breathes it out.

‘I’m not doin’ so good, Gallagher,’ he sighs, but he’s laughing and the noise is a fucking tragic garble. Ian thinks it’s weird and out of place, but at least he’s fucking admitting it, and out loud to Ian, no less.

_I can’t stop thinking about what happened._

Ian’s brain’s blank of distraction and there’s clarity and focus now, an aim. ‘Tell me how you’re feeling.’

Mickey looks irritated and fucked up as he grinds out his cigarette harder than necessary. There’s a fizzing, sizzling sound of the lit end coming into contact with the rain slick ground and then it’s replaced with a groan and the screech of the soles of Mickey’s feet as he drags them back towards himself along the concrete.

‘Fuck.’

‘Tell me. I’m here, Mickey.’

'I, uh… I take it you heard, huh? S’why you’re here?’ Mickey dodges it smoothly and clears his throat to move everything on.

Ian draws his bottom lip in with his teeth and sucks. ‘You’re getting married.’

Simple. Oversimplified. There’s so much weight in the statement but it leaves his mouth easily. Now it’s out in the open, dragging them both down.

‘Yeah.’ Another desperate laugh later and Ian’s shuffling closer.

'Why?’ he whispers, and everything that’s broken inside him makes his voice crack.

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut and lets the back of his head hit the pillar. Flakes of paint fall to the ground and crunch under Ian’s fingertips as he squashes them. ‘Not my fucking idea.’

Ian presses his lips together and flinches as the heat of his cigarette reaches his fingers. He throws it so it rests beside Mickey’s crumpled, half finished one and breathes out. ‘Whose idea was it, then?’ He knows he sounds accusatory, but he’s hurt.

Mickey rolls his head to the side to glare at Ian through hooded lids. ‘Are you fucking stupid?’

Ian frowns and sinks his teeth into the skin around his thumbnail. There’s an anger bubbling up. He’s always been angry under the surface, at Mickey’s treatment, at their entire situation. It’s so much worse when he’s sat there feeling inferior at the hands of the man himself once again, at a time like this.

Eventually, Mickey exhales and then takes a pull of alcohol. ‘My dad.’ Ian closes his eyes and breathes. ‘He keeps fucking everything up.’

‘You mean… fucking us up?’ Us. Together.

'Fuck off, Gallagher.’

When Mickey says _I’m nothing, really, stop wasting your fucking time_ , he means it. Chip, chip, chipping away at Ian’s sanity.

It’d be so easy to tear himself away and try to forget everything about Mickey Milkovich. It’d be so easy to lash out or just ignore the pain etched on the other boy’s face. He suddenly doesn’t want to see this. He wants to cause even more damage and worsen the scars Mickey’s embedded beyond his skin tissue and replicate them. Project them onto Mickey.

As it turns out, Ian wants the hair on his arms to stand on end as Mickey yells _I love you_.

Mickey’s the complete opposite of damaged, twisted and dull. Mickey’s a bright burst of summer in the midst of winter. He’s the bloom of an ache in Ian’s chest. He’s fashioned by his environment.

‘Well… you don’t need to do this alone.’

There’s a _snap_ that’s almost audible and Mickey’s expression shuts down.

‘I’m not some weak fuckin’ pussy. I _can_ do this on my fucking own.’

Mickey’s so fucking strong but he’s lying and Ian needs to hear the truth.

‘Just fucking tell me you need me. _Tell_ me you want to be with me.’

The sound of Mickey’s empty bottle of liquor smashing against the ground and the following footsteps of him walking away rips Ian’s soul open.


End file.
